


I Need Somebody

by Scythela



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 0 feet apart because they are gay, 2 bros chilling in a bathub, Angst, Bathtubs, Drug Use, Eventual Smut, Fluff, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, My First Fanfic, New York, Non-Graphic Smut, Sharing a Bed, The Dakota (The Beatles), bathrobes because i'm lazy, so many errors so i'm really sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:30:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25400137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scythela/pseuds/Scythela
Summary: Paul knelt in front of John, holding his head up with warm hands. John felt his skin, confusingly calloused from metal strings and farm-work yet soft and tender. It radiated a soft warmth that resembled embers. He didn’t pay attention and leaned against his hands instead, craving the contact. “John, I’m taking your clothes off.”“Do it, you prude.”------John's all alone and suffering. Fuck it, he might as well call Paul McCartney while he's high.
Relationships: John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 32
Kudos: 69





	I Need Somebody

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos appreciated

His body was burning. He needed some fucking water, but his body felt too heavy. John can’t remember the last time he drank water. His lips felt dry and his throat was parched. What little drool he had proved to be inadequate for undoing the dryness in his mouth, but he rolled his tongue in a futile effort.

As he attempted pressing his palms against the floor, he felt the familiar slender cylindrical figure of a syringe. It lay there next to him, used and filthy. It rolls away when John tosses it towards the bottom of some inconspicuous furniture. He could get that later.

John breathed heavily, groaning at the pain when he tried to sit up from Yoko’s cherished carpet. He craned his neck and found her or Sean nowhere. The flat was cold and empty, the dismal emptiness accentuated by its harsh white lights painful to his eyes. Still, he got up and raked a shaky hand through his greasy hair. John stopped in his tracks when he stepped on something metallic. He crouched, picking up the strange item.

A silver spoon.

Of course, it’s his. John recognized it from the stains all over. It reeked of heroin. The metal still felt warm on the underside, its traces of heat from licks of the Zippo’s tangerine flames. He pocketed the silverware in his robe and made his way to the kitchen.

For a place he called home, the flat felt alien and unfamiliar as he traversed through its halls. With an addled head, he gripped onto every surface for stability. Even with his glasses on, everything looked like blurred blobs. He tried his best not to bump into the furniture, and by some stroke of luck, John made it to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator with feeble hands, eyeing the chilled bottles of purified water.

He grabbed one and twisted the cap. To his dismay, it didn't budge. His grip tightened around the thin plastic container, making the water bulge at the top, ready to burst. It took a few tries, but it eventually opened and it spilt some of it onto his skin. “Goddammit,” he cringed, yet still took a swig. He chugged the water down, some droplets turning into rivulets that cascaded down his chin.

John took another bottle and drank it all in one go, panting after he did so.

He leaned against a counter while taking a breather and he heard a dull clink against the wood drawers. Oh, right. The spoon. John fished it out of his pocket and placed it on the counter. It sat there, a reminder of his spiralling addiction that may cost him his life in the future. A bout of nausea poisoned his stomach and he pressed his palm against his mouth. To calm down, he cleared his mind. Only then does he notice the low voices coming from another part of the kitchen.

He looked around and eventually located the source of the static-y noises. They came from a nearby radio stationed on one of the countertops. John walked up to it and twisted the volume knob, thus being able to hear it better.

_“…here, isn’t he?”_

_“Yes! He just landed in New York a few days ago for his next concert.”_

_“That’s right, folks. The legendary Paul McCartney is here in New York City with his band, Wings!”_

Paul? Was Paul here in NYC?

_“Do you think he’s visiting John Lennon at all? I’d die to see them together, man.”_

_“A man could only dream.”_

Except it didn’t have to be a dream, John could’ve easily hit him up and asked him to visit. If he were sober, he probably would have refused to hold the phone and dial up the numbers. However, in his intoxicated (and maybe high) state, impulse overpowered his ego and washed over it like a tidal wave. Right now, he needed someone and that someone needed to be Paul. The plastic phone hanged from the wall, tempting John to push his fingers against the number pad, and fall back into the rabbit hole he desperately clawed out before. His shaky fingers slowly pressed the buttons, a voice of doubt nagging him from the back of his head. It took a few rings, but he eventually heard the voice that makes his throat dry and stomach twist.

"Paul McCartney speaking, who is this?"

Apprehension briefly captured his voice, trapped it in his throat, and rendered him unable to utter a single word. When was the last time he ever heard his voice in a proper conversation? As far as John was concerned, he only got to hear the familiar McCartney dulcet tones in songs or on TV. Still, hearing him caused great relief coursing through John’s veins. Paul noted the silence and was perplexed.

“Hello? Anyone there?”

John pressed his head against the wall. “It’s me.”

“John!”

“Can you come over to the Dakota?” He rubbed his throat, cursing his raspy voice.

“Is there something wrong?”

“I need help, Yoko isn’t home.”

“Wait, what’s going on?”

John hissed. He was already starting to regret this. “I need you here with me. Please. I’m not feeling well.”

Paul sighed. “Be here in a few. I want an explanation when I get there.”

The call ended with a click and John hung the phone back in its place. The feeling of relief from his drug of choice ebbed away as each second passed, his body replacing it with queasiness and regret. Fucking heroin, always fucking up his emotions. Why he ever kept using it if his body reacted this way in the aftermath, he had no fucking clue. As he pondered his decisions, he attempted to walk back to the living room, wanting to get to the door as soon as possible.

Unknowingly, his body became heavier. It weighed him down, and his movements come to a halt when the world started spinning. John felt as though his brain rattled inside his skull and a wave of sickness washes over him. Determined, he took a step forward, only for him to tumble down with tangled feet. He crashed onto the floor with a dull thud, the pain in his body amplified by the hardwood floor.

His eyes blankly stared at the door ahead. It stood there, a reminder of his impulses. By any moment now, the doorbell would ring and Paul would be waiting on the other side. “Fuck,” he hissed, knowing that he was too weak to open the fucking door once he got here. That fucking door was the only thing that separated him and his estranged friend.

Still, he felt as though he was losing consciousness and his eyelids got heavier as the slow minutes ticked away. The numbness of his fingertips climbed up his arms, worsening his clammy condition. Inky blots dotted his eyesight and he felt his breathing decline, heaves of air bated in his lungs. This was it. He was dying. He was fucking dying all alone, smelling like crap and feeling like shit. He bitterly laughed, clutching his painful sides and coughing up some spit and bile. It dripped onto his clothes; the fluids discolouring the fabric with dark wet spots.

As if by some miracle, the door swung open, only to reveal the one and only Paul McCartney. John didn’t think of why the door was unlocked in the first place, opting to keep his mind blank in fear of worsening his splitting headache.

“John, what the bloody hell happened to you!?” The bassist almost tripped when he rushed towards him, not caring when his dirty shoes walked over Yoko’s carpet. Brown and grey stains marked his footsteps, contrasting its once pristine condition. He dropped down to his knees, gently cradling John’s head. “Oh my god, wake up.”

“P… Paul?” John slowly opened his eyes to see. He gave a shaky grin, but his pained composure betrayed his face. Paul was here. His face was inches away and John saw the worry and panic etched into his features. John weakly sighed, attempting to prop himself up by the elbows but failing, slumping instead.

“Give me your hand,” said Paul, grabbing John and hoisting him up, supporting him by his bony shoulders. His nose crinkled at the stench of John’s unwashed body and clothing. “Fuck, you stink.”

“I noticed,” said John, groaning when he felt lightheaded from standing up.

“So you didn’t take a bath?”

“Too busy OD’ing on the fucking floor.” Paul’s face twisted into an expression filled with disgust and disappointment, arched brows knit in repulsion and all. At least, that’s what it looked to John, who was irked. “What? It’s the truth.”

“You know how I feel when you do this to yourself. I don’t like it when you do stuff like this, John. It’s ruining you.”

“What are you gonna do?” John wanted to shove Paul away but he was too weak to make any rough movement. He saw the pain and frustration in his face, but John decided to continue his little outburst. “Are you gonna yell at me? Force me to go to rehab and behave, is that it?”

“If that’s what if took to get you to stop fucking up, then yes!”

John sneered. “You know damn well it isn’t!”

Paul pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled sharply. “Listen, John. I need you to be honest with me, what was the point in telling me to come over? I left Linda and the others and got the nearest cab to help you, but here you are again, pushing me away! You keep doing this, John! Don’t you think I don’t get tired of it?”

John pointed an accusatory finger at Paul, his hand shaking. He didn’t know if it was due to his heroin-induced jitters or his anger. “If you’re so fucking keen on sticking with Linda and your boorish pals, then fucking go! Leave me like you always do!”

Paul’s eyes widened and his jaw clenched tightly. John hit a nerve. “Don’t you dare start that.”

“Of course!” John grinned maliciously. “Leave me for random women! Leave me for fucking Linda! Why not go and skedaddle to your fucking wannabe musician besties!? You leave me all the fucking time when I need you and I let you because I know that you don’t care about me! Why the fuck are you even here if you’re gonna turn yourself away from me!?”

“I do care about you!” Paul closed the gap between them by stepping closer and grabbing him by the shoulders. “I’ve cared about you my whole life, John— can’t you see?”

“You’ve made it damn near impossible to believe that.” He snarled.

“I know I haven’t been there for you every time you needed me but please, let me be here for you. Aren’t you asking for my help now? I want to help you, John. Let me help you.”

A pregnant silence followed Paul’s plea as John mulled it over. He knew that he was unable to let it fall on deaf ears, and mentally cursed. John also knew that he was the one who asked Paul to come over, but seeing that he would still look at him with judging eyes only made him feel sick and guilty. He sighed, having made his decision. Who knew that the McCartney persuasion tactic still annoyingly worked on him?

“Fine,” He said with begrudging acceptance.

“Thank you.” Paul relented, letting go of his shoulders. “Right, so where's the bathroom?”

John grumbled the directions to the lavatory and Paul carried him there. Inside, the tiles were shockingly white so were the walls. Everything had that blindingly pristine mute shade which led Paul’s eyes to look at the only sources of colour, Sean’s bath toys and the family’s hygiene products. By the sink stood a cup with three toothbrushes, one short and colourful with designs of a vaguely familiar cartoon. He was too busy with observing his surroundings to notice that John leapt from his arms and rushed away.

John slammed the toilet lid open and held his hair up.

“John, what—“

Noises of retching cut his words short.

“Oh,” Paul said dumbly.

John’s hands were almost as pale and cold as the porcelain toilet he was puking into. He spat into the bowl, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “I’m puking my damn guts out, what’s it fucking look like?” He growled before his expression turned sour as he gagged and vomited again.

“Uh, stay right there, I’m going to get you some water.” Paul exited the bathroom and returned a few minutes later, a refreshing water bottle in hand. His eyebrows flew up to his forehead when he saw John hunched over the sink with the faucet running. “Jesus, you drank from the sink?”

“What? I don’t want to drink from the tub now, do I?”

Paul shook his head. “You know what? Never mind.” He twisted the cap (better than John did) and handed the bottle over. “Just drink this.”

John quickly emptied the bottle and unceremoniously tossed it on the floor, leaving Paul to pick it up and throw it into a bin near the sink. Paul flushed the toilet and set the lid down to hide the smell. John sat on it; hands on his knees and breathing heavily. He felt another wave of sickness kick in but said nothing, biting his lip to the point of almost drawing blood. Coruscant hazel eyes noticed John’s distress and Paul pressed the back of his hand against his forehead.

“You’re burning up,” he said, and John only nodded in agreement.

John felt dizzy and numb. His body was so unsteady that it’s ready to topple over like a crumbling tower. Still, John held onto the toilet for dear life as Paul bustled in the bathroom, quickly gathering the essentials. He rolled up his sleeves, exposing his hairy arms. John dumbly wondered the reason why but it became clear enough when he turned on the faucet of the tub, letting water slosh against its porcelain walls.

Paul knelt in front of John, holding his head up with warm hands. John felt his skin, confusingly calloused from metal strings and farm-work yet soft and tender. It radiated a soft warmth that resembled embers. He didn’t pay attention and leaned against his hands instead, craving the contact. “John, I’m taking your clothes off.”

“Do it, you prude.”

Paul stifled a snort and took John’s glasses off and, folding the frames and carefully setting it aside. The loose knot to his robe came undone and Paul helped him out of it, revealing a naked body dotted with moles and freckles. He had pasty skin, so unhealthy and unappealing. Both knew that it would gain a sickly yellow hue in due time. His figure was spindly and Paul saw the ribs resembling a row of arches. The pudge around his stomach was long gone, replaced by a flat expanse of skin that accentuated his bony torso. John felt naked. Exposed. Vulnerable.

He weakly raised his head to look at him. “So? What do you have to say?”

“I don’t want to see you like this.” Paul looked down, his eyes set on avoiding his body.

“You could always close your eyes, y’know.”

“And deny it? I can’t do that.” His touch was gentle against John’s skin. His fingertips prodded at the bony bumps on his sides, making John want to shy away from his touch. “Why do you do it, John? It hurts to see you so frail.” His tone was almost motherly, making John growl in irritation.

“Now you’re just being dramatic.”

“I’m not. All this concern is rational.” Paul cupped John’s cheek, rubbing his thumb affectionately. “I can’t look at you without getting mad at myself for letting you devolve into this. It’s killing you, luv. I don’t want to lose you to this.”

Unknown to Paul, his words sent a pang of guilt to John’s weak beating heart. He spoke slowly, the words trailing from his mouth with great caution. “Paul, believe me, I tried so many times to get clean. For Sean, for Yoko… for you. It’s just fucking impossible no matter how hard I try. I’ve been to anonymous meetings and professionals. Nothing’s working.”

“But that isn’t to say that you should stop trying. We’ll find a way, I promise.”

John shook his head, incredulous. “Promises do nothing.”

“It’s my word and I always deliver.”

A memory slithered into his head of a time long past, almost from a lifetime ago. It was from an epoch of a love unspoiled and not rotten, lively and passionate. With their bodies bare and interlocked in a heated embrace, Paul whispered his words and promised forever. "Forever" seemed to be lovely until it ended. Where did that “forever” lead John? Sprawled on the floor, groaning in pain, and praying for someone to end his self-induced misery. Even so, John wanted to try. He wanted to be clean. He was sick of being sick. If not for his friends and family, then for himself.

“I’ll… I’ll try,” said John, voice marred by uncertainty and doubt.

“Thank you, John.” Paul retracted his hands from John’s cheek and noticed the tub, close to overflowing. He turned the faucet off, the water coming to an abrupt halt before falling droplets created ripples on the surface.

Paul guided John into the tub, letting him dip his toes before climbing inside, submerging himself completely. The water overflowed with the addition of John’s mass, some of it splashing onto the cold ceramic floor. Still, the water felt ice cold against his skin. It lessened the effects of heroin, whittling his nausea bit by bit. John sighed, the relief palpable on his face.

The bassist continued perusing cabinets and shelves for bath products, his hands fishing out an expensive-looking bottle of shampoo. It was purple with a gaudy gold cap, and it oddly resembled a bottle of oil from an Egyptian bath. John’s lavishness knew no bounds.

“Alterna?” Paul snorted, popping the cap open and sniffing it. It was pleasant enough for his tastes, a bit fruity and sweet. “Really?”

“Don’t make that face, it’s just shampoo.” John rolled his eyes.

“If it’s just shampoo, you wouldn’t have any problems using the cheaper stuff.”

A small pout curled John’s chapped lips. “Oh dear, I’m so sorry for spending the money I have. I suppose money shouldn’t be spent at all.”

“Well, I have money too, but I don’t buy Alterna, do I?”

“I know you’re the type to use dog shampoo on yourself, you cheapskate.” John playfully splashed water in Paul’s direction, tragically soaking his clothes. His blue button-up clung onto his body, outlining svelte skin. Paul gasped and reacted by splashing back, only harder. The whole ordeal turned into play fighting, resulting in shared fits of giggles and wet clothes.

It didn't take long until Paul realized that he didn’t have any spare clothes with him and he might have to take a ride home dripping water everywhere. Of course, the nippy air of New York also posed a problem and it would be too embarrassing to ask John for clothes. John noticed the distress and Paul’s eyes and tried to think of a solution to keep his mind off it. For no reason, a stupid idea popped into his head. Lately, his idiotic impulsive ideas were paying off, so why not give this one a go?

“You’re already wet,” he pointed out, scooting over to make room. “Join me.”

“You’re the one who reeks,” Paul wrung what little clothing he can, letting the water drip onto the floor. “So you’re the one who needs a bath.”

“Well, I _need_ you to be in this tub.” John attempted his most convincing puppy eyes. “Pretty please? You don’t have to bring the rubber duckies.”

“John, be rational. We wouldn’t even be able to fit in the tub.”

“You never know until you try. Come on.”

Paul reluctantly gave in and unbuttoned his shirt. “You’re too damn needy.”

“You like it.” John grinned.

Paul stripped in front of John, any signs of hesitation of bashfulness absent or buried underneath his perfectly handcrafted facade. His clothes fell onto the floor with a dull splat, and his underwear fell with them. His skin was rosy, maybe even a bit tan from a Caribbean sun, and still covered with soft body hair. On his stomach, tufts of hair form a happy trail that led to his nether regions; a part John was familiar with a long time ago. He looked healthy, incredibly so. John focused on Paul’s body, yet his mind was demanding him not to do so.

He was beautiful.

Timeless.

His body is the same temple John worshipped all those years ago.

Whether Paul noticed the ogling or not, he said nothing and joined him in the tub, their knees bumping into each other as they struggled to fit in. Paul shifted, his knee slotting between John’s legs, providing what little leeway and space it produced. John felt as though his skin was burning again, but not from the heroin. He’s burning up because of a mix of anxiety and excitement. They were treading unknown waters here. Where do they go from now? How will they proceed? Would they fall into each other's arms again or distance themselves?

“I told you the tub’s too small,” Paul commented, the small talk breaking the silence.

“The tub was the least of my problems when I bought this place.” They obviously didn’t fit. The petite form of a woman took no space and allowed a man to take up even three-quarters of the tub’s capacity. He wasn’t expecting to share a tub with a man, let alone share it with Paul. Still, John attempted to act as if this was a non-problem. “I could always buy a bigger one.”

Paul grabbed the bottle of Alterna from the floor and squeezed some product into his palm. “Turn around; I’ll wash your damn tumbleweed hair.”

“A full service, eh?” John simpered, turning his back towards Paul. “I’m expecting a mani-pedi and a massage too.”

Paul chuckled and began to work on John’s absurdly messy hair, the liquid shampoo turning into suds as he lathered the product properly. As he massaged his scalp, he felt rough patches of tangled hair, so it took a few tugs to get everything in order. To John, Paul’s hands felt salubrious. Bit by bit, the biliousness in his stomach subsided. He was calm, dipped in a pool that soothed him with a man who seemed to be perfect with his ministrations.

It felt nice. So nice in fact, John’s eyelids drooped low. His head started to bob.

“Don’t fall asleep in the tub,” Paul gently tapped John’s head. “You’ll be a nuisance to drag out.”

“You and your hands…” John hummed, lifting his heavy eyelids. “Just bring a pillow to the tub, I’ll be fine.” He leaned against Paul’s knees, sighing at the feeling of skin against skin. He wished that he could lean against Paul’s chest, but he knew he’d never let that happen. He was sure that it’s only reserved for his wife, not him. He lost that right years ago. For now, he was content with what little blessings he could’ve gotten.

“Oh, shut up.” Paul chuckled.

When John’s hair felt soft and smelled pleasant enough, Paul reached for the knob to the shower and twisted it, a gentle downpour of water rinsing the suds off his hair. It looked much better now, the dull matte of grease replaced by a wet shine brightening his sandy hair. They drained the tub and took turns to wash away the remnants of the soapy water, stepping out to dry themselves off with small towels.

Both of them covered up with robes and fastened the fabric belts. John grabbed his and Paul’s clothes and tossed them to the nearest hamper. They felt clean and more relaxed. John was sure that he didn’t feel sick anymore but knew that his body would crash back into its state of ruin like a relapse. He pushed those thoughts away, trying to focus on the positive side of things.

It was already four-thirty when he called Paul and looking out the bathroom window, he saw the sun setting over the horizon, obscured by tinted New York towers and skyscrapers. They casted familiar penumbras over the macadam streets and the citizens who walked on them. Eventually, it would be completely dark and Paul would have to go back to his wife… and leave John alone.

The thought of abandonment sent an unwanted tremor through John’s body but he hid it well enough as not to be noticed by Paul, who was drying his hair with a towel. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave nor did he express any intent to do so. John tried to find signs but saw none and gained a morsel of hope that maybe, just maybe, Paul would stay for the night.

They walked through the empty halls of the house and wordlessly went to the master bedroom. John slipped into his walk-in closet filled with unnecessarily expensive clothing. Paul waited by the doorway, observing the room’s design. Its walls still had that lifeless stark white colour and it contrasted the fabrics and linens on the bed. Reds, blues, and yellows make up most of the blankets and pillows. The bed itself was positioned near a great window with lights pouring through, which was ideal for moderate light in the morning. Even so, it looked unused and cold, the exact opposite of what a married couple’s bed should be.

John contemplated on giving Paul pyjamas. On one hand, he was certain that Paul still slept in the nude. In the other, he didn’t know if he’s comfortable enough to sleep naked around him. There weren’t any spare guestrooms in the flat because they never let anyone stay, which was Yoko’s rule. _“It’s our home,”_ she would say whenever John wanted his artist friends over for a jam session or a hardcore drug party. 

This time, Yoko wasn’t here to reprimand him like some kind of teenager who wants his friends to come to his sleepover. He was a grown man who could make his own decisions without his wife’s permission or ratification… at least, that’s what everybody else told him.

His hands froze as he rummaged through the drawers for a shirt as he realized that he has to lend some underwear. “Oh shit,” He said aloud.

Paul turned to him, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you still sleep nude…?”

Paul quirked a brow, confused. “Yeah, why?”

“ _Are_ you gonna sleep nude?”

He hummed, mulling it over. “I think it’ll get nippy in the living room.”

“What?” John came out of the closet and stared at Paul incredulously. “Who said anything about sleeping on the couch?”

“I’m… I’m not?”

“No, you could—” John bated his breath. What the fuck was he thinking? Paul eyed him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. John sighed, throwing fuck all rationality. “You could sleep next to me.”

“Oh.” Paul tugged his robe nervously. “This robe is enough for me.”

John was surprised but tried to react casually. “Alright.”

Their movements felt clunky as they slipped underneath weighted covers. Another voice at the back of John’s head niggled him, but he tried to forget about its existence. Both men felt drained in every sense, John more so due to his drug-induced sickness. Even though the effects of heroin thankfully subsided, his body felt ragged and he barely felt a thing now aside from the anxiety he gets from being next to Paul.

“I’m honestly wondering how you aren’t tired yet.”

“I am, but I’m keeping my eyes open so I could see you,” John admitted, pursing his lips at the thought that he said too much. Even so, he carried on without a long pause to trail behind his words. “I’m afraid that when I wake up, you won’t be beside me.”

“You could see me tomorrow,” said Paul, a little too earnestly.

“Wait, you’re staying?”

“As long as Yoko isn’t here. She hates it when I’m around you, y’know.”

“So I’ve noticed,” John said bitterly. “Don’t you have to call Linda and the others?”

“I’ll do it in the morning.” Hints of uncertainty taint Paul’s voice, but he tried to conceal it. “Right now, all my attention is on you.”

With nothing keeping them apart or drawing them away from each other, John is happy to know that he is Paul’s cynosure. He might not say it, but Paul is in the centre of his attention too. He is his sun shining brightly in the centre of the universe, and John is the lucky fool to revolve around him. He beams, affection shining through like a million rays illuminating the darkest of days.

“I like the attention,” John admitted, coughing awkwardly. “…and I like you.”

“Do you?” asked Paul in disbelief.

“I do.” Paul seemed to be happy with this confession.

“I like you too.”

John grinned in response. “I’m glad we like each other.”

“God knows what would’ve happened if we didn’t.”

They giggled, falling into a comfortable silence.

“I… thanks for your help, Paul.” John’s fingers tugged on his soft cottony sleeve. “I’m such a fucking mess without you and I honestly still can’t believe that you actually came over to help me.”

“You’re welcome.” Paul smiled lovingly. “That’s what friends are for, yeah?”

Friends. The word confusingly stung John’s heart but at the same time, it made his heart surge with joy. “Paul.” John took a deep, shaky breath to cut the crap and get to the point. “I want to ask one more thing of you. Just one. I won’t lose my shit if you say no, but I’d be more joyful than a damn mystery on Monday.”

Paul snorted at the joke. “What is it then?”

“Kiss me.”

What uncertainty and regret Paul might’ve had was thrown out of the window as he inched himself closer to John. Intimacy for the sake of intimacy, he kissed him gently. It was soft, sweet, and it stirred up feelings in John’s gut. John, though a fool, recognized it. It was the need, the carnal urge to consume everything and leave nothing but an empty abyss. A thick cloud of red casts above him, creating a veil of desire and hunger that pooled in his stomach.

John’s raked his fingers through Paul’s hair, tugging them ever so slightly to angle his face, and he kissed him deeply. His slithered up Paul’s robe, unfastening the knot and exhibiting his ivory skin. Bony fingers roamed his pelvis until they reached their destination— right between Paul’s soft thighs. He fondled him, working up the forming erection.

Paul was his desideratum.

John wanted so he took.

Paul wanted so he gave.

 _“I love you,”_ he wanted to say. Three simple words that seem so innocent, yet it carried so much meaning and depth that it’s reverent like a holy mantra, a chant meant to be repeated in worship. Meant to be said in hushed tones but heard across the universe. A statement of love, devotion, obsession, admiration. A statement for Paul. Even so, actions spoke louder than words and thus he continued to kiss him, swollen wet lips locked in a heated dance, then kissing expanses of skin that John can’t help but revere.

Even in a dim setting, his concupiscent eyes shined bright like a million suns. They are neither, green, brown, nor hazel. Paul’s thick eyelashes resembled feather fans of burlesque showgirls. He is simply beautiful. John cannot stop gazing into pools that resembled ponds. _“God, this man is beautiful,”_ He thought to himself while nipping his jaw.

They haven’t touched each other in years but it seems as though they made love yesterday. Their bodies slotted and fitted together like perfect puzzle pieces, forming a picture worth marvelling over. Its beauty rivals that of a Botticelli painting, vibrant and alluring. This is how it always should’ve been, even if it was impossible from the get-go. John and Paul. Paul and John. Corporeal forms radiating heat against soft skin, providing the warmth to fend off the coldness of isolation.

No matter how loving it was, John knew that everyone would be against it.

It was obscene. It was wretched.

It was perfect.

Paul was his drug of choice. John could’ve concocted the most intoxicating of poisons yet only Paul could keep him coming back for more, make him beg on his knees in a fit of desperation. He won’t say it, but he was willing to grovel at his feet. He did not need food or water; he only needed him. The need consumed him, overwhelmed him, evident in the heated frantic touches they shared. They took a brief pause, a string of spit connecting their lips.

“John, fuck.” Paul pressed his head against John’s shoulder. “We can’t.”

“Just this once,” John pleaded, his bony hands roaming his chest. “I know you want it too.”

“I do, but I can’t. I’m not allowed to want this.”

“Paul, you’ve been nothing but generous. I’ve been the needy one here, the one who keeps on begging for you.” John kissed him again, flicking his wet tongue against his lips. “Be selfish for once and fucking take me.”

“Okay,” said Paul, closing his eyes. “Okay.”

John grinned and huffed out a laugh, surging forward and locking their lips once more in a searing kiss. A low moan came from Paul’s lips as he undid John’s robe, eagerly almost ripping it off him in need of skin to mark.

“Shit—”

“Fuck, I want you,” said John breathlessly. “I want you so bad.”

There it was again, the desire that drove both men mad. It threw all rationality out of the window and let their animalistic urges reign over their senses. They needed to mark, claim, and _feel_ everything that the other has to offer. For the first time in God knows how long, they bared themselves and gave everything they wanted the other to take. No more vague songs and lies in interviews, just pure honesty and no misdirection. In that heated moment, both men were suspended in each other’s arms as the world crumbled to dust lost in the wind, leaving the two of them in a floating paradise resembling every religion’s heaven.

Even so, they knew that this paradise was temporary.

They touched each other and ground against flesh in a tempo that rivalled that of a Mach piece. The temperature in the room rose and bit by bit, they felt as if flames singed every inch of their body. A thin sheen of sweat covered their skin, glistening under the dim skyscraper lights of New York City.

“J-Johnny, I’m close— oh my god, I’m—”

“Do it, Paulie.”

In the end, they reached their climax, backs arching and resembling crescent moons. Shaky groans escaped their swollen lips, bodily fluids painting their hands and abdomens with a viscous gossamer sheen. The stars in their eyes quickly faded away, their visions regaining clarity. A haze of sex permeated the air like a thick fog, a heavy feeling sinking in their stomachs. If they regretted this, they could regret it tomorrow. For now, nothing else mattered at this moment but themselves.

John looked up the ceiling, his bony chest rising ever so desultorily with shallow breaths. Both men felt the familiar exhaustion seeping into tired bones as the afterglow dragged on. He glanced at Paul, expecting words or touch, but he only received silence and apprehension. A pang of hurt engulfed him, ruining the happiness induced by the sex.

“Goodnight,” said John, voice filled with pain. He turned his back to face away from Paul. It was such a futile effort to hide his shame, but it’s all he could do. He cursed at himself, thinking he’s an idiot for thinking that Paul even would reciprocate his affections.

He is surprised, however, to feel firm arms snaking around his waist. Paul pulled him closer, effectively spooning him against his chest. “Goodnight, John,” said Paul, burying his nose into the crook of John’s neck. “See you in the morning.”

John felt secure and weighted. He might not have liked getting sick and almost dying to fucking heroin no less, but at least Paul came to him like a dog summoned by a whistle. He stifled a laugh, his dark jokes kept to himself as he shut his eyes and fell into a deep slumber in the comfort of Paul’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> bro... please think it's okay, my little ego is gonna beat itself aha


End file.
